Lost In The Dark
by riynariddle
Summary: To sleep, Sam, to sleep. And may your night be sweeter than mine... Rated for general darkness


Disclaimer: Frodo owns Sam, Sam owns Frodo, and Tolkien owns them both.

It was night, or so Sam guessed. And that was it all was now, a guess- vague guessing and hoping and praying that the day had in fact ended, and a new one was begun. But who could tell? Who could tell that there was day at all, looking out across this land, this dreadful, dreadful land? The sky was cloaked in pure and evil black, the once sweet blue choked by the foul gases spewed forth from that vile mountain. Mountain?__

Sam laughed.

'Twas no mountain, for he had seen those, oh yes. And most terrorsome he had thought them, being the young fool he was. Nay, this was not a mountain, not a simple up and down of rock, with maybe ice and snow atop. This, _this_, was a demon- a demon of hard, harsh stone, full to the jagged brim with fire and ash.

And the ash had filled the heavens, and blocked out what little light the Sun had had to give. And now, or so Sam guessed, it was night, and somewhere out there the stars still shone in their velvet black. But not here, never here.

Sam sighed and rubbed a torn and calloused hand across his weary brow, drenched in sweat. How was it that he sweated so, and yet with no liquid to take in? Soon, surely, he would have none left and would sweat blood, 'til that too had gone and naught was left of Samwise Gamgee save empty cloth and skin. And who then would protest his Master?

"Frodo?" whispered he, and the hobbit glanced across at his Master, sprawled across the hard ground.

Frodo did not speak or move even the slightest at his name, lying as still as ever with his back to Sam. Asleep? mused Sam, though he found it hard to believe any living thing could sleep so still in such a nightmare. Then…. Dead? And with that, Sam felt the beginnings of cold panic rise in his chest.

"Frodo! Mr. Frodo, Sir!" exclaimed the hobbit, all weariness and thirst forgot as he scrambled across the rock to whence his Master lay.

"What, Sam?" muttered Frodo, turning his head slightly to stare up at Sam with accusing eyes. "What? It is not yet day. Do you bid me to continue on my journey at _night_ also?"

Sam froze, and blinked, and opened his mouth though naught came out save vague stuttering.

"Go to sleep," snapped Frodo, letting his head drop back on to his chest as though he had not the strength to hold up. "To sleep, Sam, to sleep. And may your night be sweeter than mine."

But no move did Sam make, staring at his Master with wide-eyes that were slowly narrowed into a glare.

"Were you not asleep, Sir?" Sam muttered, slowly crawling to Frodo. "Were you not asleep, for I did not hear you breathing and you did not start when I cried your name?"

"Do not bother me with such childish questions, Sam. Can you not see I am weary?" hissed Frodo, turning once again to the other hobbit.

"Aye, sir, aye. Most tired you do seem. Not at all do you look as if you had been sleeping for a good few hours, no matter how fitfully it may've been. So, I ask you Mr. Frodo, were you not asleep?"

"Oh for goodness sake Sam!" cried Frodo, at last sitting up with a glare to match Sam's own. "What does it matter to you whether I sleep or not? You may wish to have sole control over my broken life, but you cannot command me to sleep with a wave of your hand! You are no wizard, Sam, merely a young and frankly irritating hobbit!"

"It's the Ring, isn't it?" and Sam's voice fell to a whisper, and he pulled himself nearer, face to pale face with Frodo. "Isn't it? Oh you may deny it, but I can see it in your eyes. It's eating away at your soul, Mr. Frodo, and I can see what it's doing to you. You're dieing, sir."

"Dieing? _Dieing_?" Frodo laughed, harsh and cold, though his hands trembled as he pushed Sam away. "Do not mock me with your words of fancy, Sam! You know nothing, _nothing_, or the Ring and what it does. You are guessing, and your guesses are foolish and those of a _child_. Now to sleep, I tell you, and leave me be!"

But Sam did not away, and instead crawled ever closer, with a grab at his Masters arm, 'til their faces were less than inch apart and each trembling breath of one could be felt on the others pale cheek.

"If it is not the Ring that troubles you, sir," breathed Sam, so quietly Frodo had to strain to hear. "Then why do you clutch it so?"

Frodo trembled and stared at Sam with wild eyes. Sam raised an eyebrow, and carefully raised his hand to release the ring from Frodo's tight grip. Frodo did not resist, and flinched as the ring swung free on its chain against his chest.

Had Sam been but a few years younger, he would've sworn he heard a dull but heavy thud as the ring fell against its shivering owner. As it was, however, he merely raised the offending hand to his chapped and dry lips, and brushed them against his Master's torn knuckles.

"Sam…" mumbled Frodo, leaning his forehead against the other hobbit's. "Sam, bravest of brave, dearest of dear. What would I do without you?"

"I dread to think, Mr. Frodo," murmured Sam, eyes crinkling with a wry smile. 

Frodo laughed dryly, more like a bark than otherwise.

"I'm lost without you, dear Sam," continued Frodo, holding Sam's rough hand against his cheek like a hobbit-child's toy. 

"And without you, Mr. Frodo," breathed Sam, stroking Frodo's tear-stained cheek. "And I without you."

Frodo turned his head into the touch as his eyes fluttered shut, and his shoulders shook with tears yet to fall.

"_Then why can I not escape this darkness?_" he whispered, and Sam's heart broke as his Master turned away.


End file.
